


i know what i came to do, and that ain't gonna change

by Lefauxlucifer



Category: BanG Dream! (Anime), BanG Dream! Girl's Band Party! (Video Game)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), F/F, Insecurity, Internal Monologue, POV Second Person, Shameless Smut, There's a plot I swear, Vanilla, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 05:06:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18230309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefauxlucifer/pseuds/Lefauxlucifer
Summary: In which Maruyama Aya learns that just because you're on top doesn't mean you're topping, and Hikawa Hina is a goddamn fiend.





	i know what i came to do, and that ain't gonna change

**Author's Note:**

> this. spiraled out of control fast. also. title is from focus by ariana grande.

Your mind says there's no way in _hell_ , but apparently, your head doesn’t let that register. Maybe that’s because your heart’s getting in the way and blurring all the lines, so you're nodding _yes_ despite everything, and it's not hard to ascertain how the two of you have never been on a traditional date.

 

Granted, your...relationship dynamic isn't _uncommon_ for college students, but it's clear as day that you can't actually ever manage to refuse her, not when she's like this, not with those puppy-dog eyes searing into your _soul_ , not even when she’s incorrigible. They’re irresistible, and _so_ deceptive. You think it’s a little unfair, how she looks like an _angel_ when the Devil himself _cowers_ before what lies within, and she knows it.

 

So you play along. _Of course_ you play along.

 

And it's not because you're beguiled by her _daring_ brand of debauchery, but because she’s pleased with the result. The expression she gives you after it’s all said and done sends you to the moon and back. It’s nothing but _surreal_.

 

What makes it even better is that it’s hardly ever over when it’s over. She’s normally eccentric, but when it comes to this, she’s not the usual intrigued or quizzical. When it comes to love and lust, she’s impassioned, and it’s uncanny.

 

And it makes you feel _hot_. Think about it. She’s insatiable, and it’s all. Your. Fault.

 

It's something magical, being the center of attention. It’s even something you’ve _longed_ for all your life. Being able to force a reaction like that by just being yourself?

 

And it’s fulfilling, _so_ fulfilling. Maybe even _addictive_. You'd go so far as to call yourself hooked on Hikawa Hina, and the unspeakable things she wants you to do (or more accurately, wants to do to you) don’t come off as _shameless_ as they really are.

 

Which means it's your own fault, you think. Hina says you can be a little hard on yourself when it comes to the blame game, but tonight’s on you, all on you.

 

Because _you_ knew better. You should've ran the moment you saw that twinkle in those sultry eyes. You should’ve made emergency plans to third-wheel with Kaoru and Chisato (she’d thank you), or even crash with Maya and Eve. Your composure lasts for 2.3 seconds around Hina _normally_. It’s like you’re asking to be a hot mess (emphasis on mess).

 

So you might have a knack for shirking responsibility, but this time, you can’t gripe. Nothing good has ever come of it, of asking her what she has in mind, and you can’t guilt Hina’s natural charisma for eliciting a casual inquiry into the evening’s agenda.

 

She gives you that telltale half-smile, and heaven be _damned_ if she’s not getting what she wants.

 

You’ve got it bad for her, real bad, and she’s well-aware. It's how you keep ending up in these types of situations... not that you necessarily mind. There's this part of you that wants what she’s offering, and admittedly you’re letting it run rampant.

 

You might be chronically indecisive, but if you had to choose, it’s a no-brainer. Even the riskiest gambler would hedge their bets.

 

So you steel yourself and clear your head of excess. You can't say you don't know how you found yourself straddling Hikawa Hina on a rickety chair in the kitchen of your apartment, because it’s not unsolicited, nor can you can’t say you don’t know why you’re wearing the two of the frilliest undergarments in your possession.

 

It all stings like a _sour_ chord, all of it, and what’s worse is when you realize don’t have a clue where to go from here. This is Hina’s area of expertise (just like everything is), and she raises an eyebrow at your firm hesitation. You don’t outright condemn her for giggling, but it makes you curl inward, and it figures.

 

Even like this, you don't have the guts to make the first move.

 

So it’s a relief when she doesn’t keep you waiting. There’s no lengthy, awkward silence; she just leans in close, and you shut your eyes. It’s better for both of you like this. You don’t have the gall to say it to her face, but you think she’s undeniably beautiful when she’s making you wince and lurch and heave, and you don’t _hate_ not being able to walk afterwards… not as much as you used to.

 

It’s an offbeat mix of relief and _raw_ anticipation, when this sweltering heat settles on your neck, and you’re appeased when the pace picks up. She starts off soft and gentle and kind, but Hina knows you better than that, maybe even better than _you_ do.

 

By how her mouth glosses over your collarbone and leaves scarlet in its wake, her going easy on you just isn’t in the cards. You won't admit to it, but you like it when she’s not holding back with you, and she takes full advantage of it whenever she slakes her own hunger.

 

When she comes up for air, there's a trail of faint marks from the base of your neck to your jaw, and though they're not unwelcome, you can't help but wonder if you haven't disappointed her by not taking the lead. She’s a visionary, this titan with ephemeral, grandiose schemes, and there’s a definite method to her _madness_. Her teeth _rake_ over the latest set of bruises, and pain has never felt so _good_.

 

You’re almost convinced she’s having the time of her life… but she wanted you on top.

 

She wanted _you_ on top, and you suppose you don't have to go all out, but this is your one chance to show her how she makes _you_ feel.

 

Yeah, she hasn’t said anything, and yeah, Hikawa Hina doesn’t show a single sign of insecurity, and yeah, you’ve told her things—things you’d never tell anyone else, but you don’t really know if she feels loved. If she feels wanted.

 

And you adore her.

 

You’re reserved and you take cues well, but you have a _thing_ for her, and it hurts you that you can never express it as _freely_ she does, as easily. Maybe it’s not what makes her feel exposed and _defenseless_ , maybe she never feels like that at all, but that’s what it does to you, and you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t like her like _that_ , didn’t want her like _that_.

 

Maybe this is more for you than it is for her but _whatever_. It’s killing two birds with one stone. You’re proving something to her, and something to yourself, and hopefully, hopefully, this is enough to both alleviate your worries and quell her wicked whimsy.

 

You gather these thoughts of yours into something cohesive while you shift until you’re on her thigh, and you’re praying you don’t fall apart. It’s a shaky foothold and it’s not like you’ve ever done this before. You’re trembling and vector calculus probably does less damage to your nerves but you steady yourself and you lower your hunched shoulders and you draw a deep breath. Your hands find the small of her back for stability’s sake, and now, you’re only half as _mortified_ as you’d be on stage.

 

But for once, she’s watching you, and you can tell she’s blown away. You’re nervous as heck and you can only hope you’re not making a fool of yourself, but those eyes are _glued_ to you, like a child when Saturday morning cartoons come on, and you’re willing to bet she’s racking her brain to figure out who you are and what you’ve done with Maruyama Aya.

 

And you know the shame is bound to set in eventually, but in the meantime, you mull things over. Your tongue runs over your top lip and you tell yourself that if you could believe in Santa Claus for ten whole years, you can believe in yourself for ten whole seconds.

 

It starts off as insubstantial, and it takes you a while to find your center of balance, but your hips ease their way into a lazy rhythm against her. It’s lax and maybe even spineless, but it generates _just_ the right amount of friction. You don’t much pay attention when your genius of a girlfriend rambles on and on about LaGrangian mechanics, but you gasp and groan, and when a symphony fails to follow—when you don’t just give in to immorality, there’s this sheer awe plastered on Hina’s face. It’s a practical demonstration of Newton’s third.

 

It’s unwarranted, but not bad, per se, and it’s at times like this that you’re awfully thankful for the laws of physics.

 

But you’re not one to quit while you’re ahead. You’re in no rush to reach the finish line, so you’re as sluggish as ever, but the frequency is metered, and _deliberate_ , and every movement brings you closer to the inevitable. She feels good against you, the kind of good that people would _kill_ for, and you’d keep this up forever if you could. You can’t, you know you can’t, but it’s that kind of wishful thinking that got you here in the first place.

 

And you don’t shy away from pushing your luck.

 

The light at the end of the tunnel is that the novelties don’t stop. Hina’s forgone her coyness for an air of genuine interest. She’s a certain kind of curious, she’s always been, but you’ve never seen this side of her, as impatient and testy as she is. She’s set aside her spontaneity and cheek to affirm your didactic routine, and it’s a concession that won’t go unnoticed. Her lips are on yours and it’s warm and unhurried and she’s tugging you close and it makes your knees go _weak_ , makes your heart _catch_ in your throat. All of time stands still, and it’s not until she pulls away that a low _growl_ brings you back into the present.

 

Each syllable _drips_ with salacious intent, and you can’t discern whether it’s a question or a statement. You wonder if you haven’t misconstrued her demands as she asks if you’re really that needy, if you want this so much, if you want her to take you right here and now because decency _isn’t_ worth the trouble.

                                                                                        

Her thumb grazes there to _check_ , and your breath _hitches_. God, she heard that, and it’s going to be the death of you. She’s giving you a once-over and you feel like _wildfire_. She’s made you stare yourself down once before, had you look at your lascivious self until you could barely stand, and though she’s put you through worse, you still wish your eyes had betrayed you. That mirror should really forget _everything_ it’s seen. _You_ want to forget everything you’ve seen, but it’s a small price to pay to be with Hikawa Hina.

 

And it all forces you to hope you're right about what comes next.

 

You are. _Thankfully_ , you are. Your fingers knot their way into messy teal green and it’s a _rush_. The embarrassment is starting to sink in, but she’s not exactly allowing you time to reflect on each of your poor life choices, and maybe, you suppose, this is exactly how she hoped it’d turn out.

 

You couldn’t care less.

 

She’s direct and coarse, and she doesn’t _bother_ with the pleasantries. There’s no beating-around-the-bush, no sidestepping the question. She doesn’t tease you halfway to Okinawa, nor does she have you beg for sweet, sweet mercy.

 

And somehow, that’s what does you in. The vague self-control you so anxiously worked to maintain, the poise and _panache_ of an idol, the crafty persona you threw together in a vain attempt to play at topping?

 

It’s over. It’s finished, all of it, gone as quickly as it came.

 

There’s not much ground to cover, but she _snakes_ , lower and lower until she stumbles _there_. You’d like to pretend that her being a guitarist has something to do with how deftly she bypasses the waistband of your ignominious white lace panties and slips it off, but you don’t have time to do that, or catch your breath.

 

And it’s not so much disheartening as it is desirable that she skips a couple steps and _drives_ her fingers into you. There’s nothing stopping her, and it’s for the best that her hair is one of the softest things on the planet, because you don’t know what you’d do without something that perfect to _grip_ onto while she _tears_ you apart, piece by piece.

 

And this time, there’s no dissertation on how you’re inexplicably _hot_ for her, no theatrical _torment_ , no questions that you know the answer to but could never say aloud. She just makes you want to _writhe_ , want to scream until your throat is raw, but it’s a Saturday evening and your neighbor is kind of also your future sister-in-law, and you’ve already been caught in the act thrice (you didn’t know fear until the two of you woke her up from a nap).

 

So if you had even an ounce of sense, you’d show some _restraint_ , and though you resolve to, you’re unsure as to whether it’s really all that possible. Your capacity for conscious decision-making and Hina’s indulgence of her carnal instincts rarely mesh, and with each push, you lose yourself just a touch more, and your hips pensively _roll_ into her hand. She’s kept herself in check for two whole days and now, she’s careless and rough and unpredictable. It makes you squirm from above but you could savor this for an eternity. You want more. You’re abashed, but you want more, and even as you _grind_ yourself on her fingertips with an unbelievable audacity, it aches. It _aches_.

 

Maybe that makes you just as licentious as she is, but the things she’s _whispered_ into your ear say otherwise. Her voice is this _soothing_ hum that starkly contrasts the _cunning_ in her words, and she _curls_ her fingers inside of you. You nearly lose it then and there but then, she’s evil, she’s beyond evil, and she _twists_.  Her fingers _brush_ against your walls in just the right way and your hips _lurch_ forward with the last of your strength and give.

 

But she only grins. Her pace flips to something visceral, and as your field of vision clouds, she _sinks_ herself deeper, and the reaction she gets is nothing short of _violent_. You hope she’s proud of what she’s done to you, but for now, all you know is how _good_ it feels, how she’s got you wrapped around her little finger, and you’re spent.

 

You let your head fall slack on her shoulder, and it’s unusually satisfying. You don’t even contort when she licks her fingers clean.

 

But that telltale twinkle in her eyes returns, and it’s a good thing sleep is overrated, because you won’t be getting any of it tonight. Unfortunately for Sayo, neither will she.

**Author's Note:**

> gods i hope i got the dynamic right and the characterization wasn't too flawed ?? this ship really gets on my uwu's and i hope i didn't screw it up too badly ?? 
> 
> but. as always, i hope y'all enjoyed! any feedback is greatly appreciated and don't be a stranger!
> 
> (i didn't use boppin' once in this fic you're welcome)


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